


The Maine Thing

by luckie_dee



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Getting Together, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 14:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/pseuds/luckie_dee
Summary: Jack knows roadies, but road trips are something new.Or, the one where Jack, Bitty, Lardo, and Shitty take a road trip to a cabin in Maine.





	The Maine Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foryouandbits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foryouandbits/gifts).



> **Warnings** : Language, hand jobs, blow jobs, frotting, canon-typical drug and alcohol use, bedsharing, background Shitty/Lardo, there was supposed to be background Nurseydex but this is already almost 20K and I ran out of time to work that in, just imagine that they're figuring their shit out over this same summer, Bitty making more food in one weekend than is humanly possible, Jack didn't go to Samwell but everyone else did, the author's thinly-veiled love song to summer vacations in Maine, unbetaed.
> 
>  **Author's Note** : Happy birthday and happy major life changes, [foryouandbits](https://foryouandbits.tumblr.com/)! This all started last year when we did the fic trope bracket and you told me that you ended up with bedsharing. I'm excited to finally share it with you and the world.

  


**THURSDAY**

Jack knows roadies, but road trips are something new.

When he was young, there had been more than enough of the former. This, however, is his first time piling into a car with friends and heading for the horizon, even though he’s steadily creeping out of his mid-twenties and into his late-twenties. It’s an age at which Jack had assumed he’d have a Stanley Cup or two, maybe an Olympic gold medal. He doesn’t have any of those, but he’s got a hell of a lot of things that nineteen-year-old Jack Zimmermann, fresh off his stint in rehab and trying to redefine a life he wasn’t sure he wanted, could never have imagined.

A Bachelor’s degree in history and a Master’s degree in library science. A job at the Harvard Law Library, thanks to a few good connections. A truck full of friends with two hours of road behind them and at least four hours ahead.

There’s Shitty, his enthusiastic co-captain, who’d aggressively befriended Jack after he’d lucked into his job. There’s Lardo, Shitty’s closest friend from his undergrad years at Samwell, who’d moved into the spare room of Shitty’s apartment last summer after she’d graduated.

And of course there’s Bittle — Bittle, who’d started turning up more and more often over the last year, visiting from Samwell and baking out all his senior year stress. He’s a graduate now too, and since there aren’t any more bedrooms available at the apartment, he’s currently sleeping on an air mattress in the corner of Shitty’s until they can find a bigger place.

Much to Jack’s chagrin, he hadn’t been particularly charitable to Bittle at first — behavior born out of some irrational fear that Bittle’s presence would change the dynamic of their little group — but that’s behind them now. Jack is happy to have Bittle sprawled on the backseat opposite Lardo, both of them snacking from a bag of pretzels that’s almost as big as either of them. Even though Bittle had only moved in a few months ago, it’s hard to imagine him _not_ being around, baking too much and brightening up the apartment and never missing an opportunity to tease Jack when he doesn’t know something about pop music or social media.

Maybe no one is counting how many close friends Jack has, the way they would tally Conn Smythes or Rocket Richards, but the sun is popping in and out from behind the clouds, traffic is flowing smoothly, and Jack is happy as the miles slide beneath the tires.

*

They stop in a small town, which Bittle says is their last best chance to buy groceries — because of course Bittle had looked that up. He swings Jack’s truck into a parking spot — he’s been commanding it effortlessly, despite the ribbing he’d gotten about his size in relation to that of the vehicle — and they pile out onto the asphalt. Jack gratefully stretches his cramped legs. He’s starting to understand what people _don’t_ like about road trips. They’re bored, having abandoned the alphabet game after crossing the border into Maine, which has stringent anti-billboard laws (a fact that Bittle had discovered after a quick Google search), and exhausted a very enlightening game called _Fuck, Marry, Kill_. There have been two squabbles about music and one spilled bag of candy, but they’re getting close now. There’s less than an hour to go.

Jack grins over at Bittle as they head into the grocery store. “I would say I’m surprised that you figured out where to get baking stuff on the way,” he teases, “but I’m not.”

Bittle grabs a cart and shoots him a mischievous look. “Do you want me to make something for you or not? We can live without maple-apple pie, you know.”

Jack holds up his hands in surrender.

They fill the cart with an obscene amount of snacks, baking supplies, cereal, and microwave meals. “You know we’re only staying for five days, right?” Jack asks, but the question falls on deaf ears. He peels off from the group to find something they can grill and a six-pack of protein shakes.

Bittle finds him a few minute slater, considering a display of s’mores supplies. “Do it,” he whispers, sidling up next to Jack.

“Don’t you think we have enough junk food?” Jack asks doubtfully, looking at the overflowing cart.

“Jack Zimmermann, you are on _vacation_. I know this is all new to you, but junk food on a road trip is basically required by law. If you don’t grab some of those marshmallows, I will.”

With a sheepish smile, Jack grabs two of everything from the display, and he’s rewarded with Bittle beaming up at him. Shitty and Lardo appear around the corner, each toting a case of beer, heads bent together to whisper about something even though they’d both been uncharacteristically quiet in the car. Jack’s sure they’re going to walk right past the cart, until Bittle exclaims, “ _There_ you are!” and they both startle.

Shitty blinks, then looks at the display and shouts, “Fuck yeah, _s’mores_!” drawing the ire of several nearby customers.

Jack herds them all toward the checkout.

*

Jack likes the cabin as soon as he sees it, as much for its own merit as how little it reminds him of his family’s cabin in Nova Scotia. He’d spent several weeks there with his mother after his overdose, when he wasn’t ready to face Montreal. Their own place is huge and rambling, with two stories and satellite television and a screened porch spanning one entire side of the building.

This, by contrast, is everything Jack had imagined when he thought of a log cabin in Maine: cozy, tucked away from the road, on a piece of land that slopes down to the water — not the ocean, but a tributary that empties there eventually. There are only as many rooms as they need — a living room with two comfortably worn-in couches and a pellet stove, a fully functional kitchen that Bittle regards with approval, a bathroom that’s just big enough, and a bedroom on either side of the building. It belongs to the uncle of one of Shitty and Bittle’s college teammates, and it’s perfect.

Jack and Shitty haul their bags into one bedroom while Bittle and Lardo take over the other. When they start unloading the groceries, it becomes clear that there’s not enough room for four people to work in the kitchen at once, and Bittle shoos Jack out, deeming him the biggest and least useful. “Go on, you big Canadian moose,” he says, playfully nudging Jack aside. “I know this is your natural habitat and you want to look around.”

After a few mild protests, Jack complies. Bittle’s not wrong.

Outside, the air is fresh and heavy with the scent of pine. The porch is open — it doesn’t even have a railing — and it’s just big enough for two Adirondack chairs. Jack steps down into the yard, making note of the fire pit at one side of it, and follows a dirt trail down to the river. A kayak and canoe wait at the its edge, though there’s no dock to launch them from. Jack kicks off his sandals and wades in. The water is cool — Bittle probably wouldn’t be able to stand it, Jack muses — but the sun is warm when Jack turns his face to it. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, relishing in the uncommon sensation of a deep, settling calm. This is all he has to worry about for five whole days.

The sound of scuffling footsteps draws his attention back to the shore. It’s Shitty, who pauses beside the boats, his hands jammed in his pockets. “How’s the water, brah?”

“Good,” Jack says, turning fully to face him. “Got all the groceries unpacked?”

“Yup,” Shitty replies, popping the ‘p’. He rocks on his feet and squints up at the sky.

Jack watches him suspiciously. He’s not sure he’s ever known Shitty to have just one syllable to say about anything, and overall, he looks kind of — twitchy. “What’s up, Shits?” Jack asks, when it doesn’t seems like there’s anything else forthcoming.

“Ah — nothing.” Shitty shifts his weight again, and unless it’s some trick of the light, he’s _blushing_. “I did want to ask you for a favor though. Just a small one. Teeny-fucking-tiny.”

“Okay,” Jack says.

Shitty meets his gaze in surprise. “You’ll do it?”

Jack snorts. “You haven’t told me what it is yet. I meant okay, go ahead, ask.”

“All right.” Shitty takes a deep breath, and Jack knows him well enough to see that he’s smothering a grin. It’s all very strange, and Jack waits with furrowed brow, the cool water flowing past his feet, until Shitty blurts, “You’ve gotta switch rooms with Lards, man.”

And that is… nothing that Jack could have even remotely predicted. “What? Why?”

“Lardo and I.” Shitty’s smiling hard now, no hiding it. “We — you know, we _happened_.”

“You happened,” Jack echoes blankly. “You — you hooked up?”

“That’s so fucking crass, man,” Shitty says, but he doesn’t sound all that put out. “It’s not like that. This is, y’know, it’s serious.”

Jack feels a slow smile stretch across his face, even as his stomach gives a strange, uncomfortable twinge. “Well, it’s about time.”

“Yeah,” Shitty agrees, his voice as no-nonsense as Jack’s ever heard it. “It really is.”

“Congrats, Shits. I’m happy for you.” And Jack means it, sincerely. Shitty’s been hung up on Lardo for the entire time Jack’s known him, and from what it sounds like, long before that. He tries to decipher why the news is making worry sprout in his gut. It’s just the change, he decides. Jack’s life is small but comfortable, and what if this thing between Shitty and Lardo disrupts it all? What if they break up and it splits their group right down the middle, and Jack never gets to spend another soothing afternoon with Lardo or bake anything else with Bittle? What if things _do_ work out between them, and Jack gets left on the outside of things? Bittle is their roommate, so he’s not going anywhere.

Jack draws in another lungful of fresh air and tries to rein himself in — recognizing the thoughts, acknowledging them, but not letting them take root. It’s easy enough for the time being, standing in the sunshine with Shitty beaming like that. “Thanks, man,” he says. “It’s good. I think — I think it’s gonna be pretty fucking good.”

“Me too,” Jack replies.

They settle into a brief silence, filled only with the sounds of nature and the water meandering toward the ocean. “So…” Shitty starts again. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Jack says, a little dumbfounded that Shitty would even ask. Whether Jack’s anxiety agrees or not, whatever happens with Shitty and Lardo doesn’t have anything to do with him.

Shitty lets out a relieved sigh, visibly relaxing. “Thanks, brah. Lardo’s checking in with Bittle. I know you two don’t know each other super well, but he’s a great roommate.”

Oh. Right. Jack had forgotten about the room-switching, and looking into Shitty’s joyous face, he can’t bring himself to pull back his agreement. Not that he would anyway; he’s sure Bittle is just fine to room with. It’s not like he takes up much space. Jack smirks to himself and files that one away in case he can use it later. “No problem. Just keep it down, eh? Some of us will actually be trying to sleep.”

Shitty goes red again, and he actually starts sputtering. “ _What_? It’s not — we won’t — well, I can’t say we _won’t_.”

Jack kicks a foot, spattering Shitty with water. “You all right, Shits? You look a little flushed.”

“Oh, fuck you, Jack Zimmermann.”

They eye each other for a moment before Shitty charges, and when they return to the cabin, they’re both dripping with river water.

*

When Jack carries his duffel bag across to the other bedroom, he encounters a closed door. Bittle had been baking, of course, and there had been some incident involving a bowl of sliced strawberries, so he’s changing. Jack hovers for a moment, unsure, and then knocks.

The door swings open to reveal Bittle, who chirps an absurdly-bright, “Hi, Jack!” and then does a double-take at Jack’s appearance, soggy clothes and all. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Jack says, deadpan. He glances down at himself. There’s mud he hadn’t noticed smeared up one side of his leg. “Does it look like something happened to me?”

Bittle just sighs and mutters something that sounds like _can’t leave you boys alone for ten minutes_. He’s still standing in the doorframe, blocking Jack’s access. Jack peers around him. “So, uh — would it be all right if I come in,” he asks, “…roomie?”

“Oh.” Bittle looks uncertain for a moment before the cheerfulness returns. “Yeah, of course!”

He moves back, giving Jack room to enter. Jack does, but he immediately comes to an abrupt halt, staring at the center of the room — where there sits one bed. It’s big, a queen probably, but there’s only one.

“Yeah,” Bittle repeats, and Jack glances over to see him anxiously scrubbing his neck as he eases the door closed. “I can sleep on one of the couches, if you want? I wouldn’t expect you to, when you’re so much taller than me. They’re big couches, but you’re just so…” Bittle pauses, dropping his eyes. “Tall,” he finally finishes.

Jack collects himself and deposits his duffel at the foot of the bed, next to Bittle’s bag. “You don’t have to do that. We can both sleep in here.”

“Are you sure?” Bittle asks.

He looks guarded and uncertain, and Jack frowns at him. “Are _you_ sure?”

“Oh, of course. This is just _fine_ with me, but —” Bittle’s arms are looped over his middle and he sighs “— I guess we don’t know each other very well, and you didn’t look too thrilled when you saw that there’s only one bed.”

“I was just surprised, that’s all,” Jack explains. “There’s only one bed in the other room too, so I thought that was the master and that there’d be two in here. But it’s no problem, Bittle, really.”

Bittle’s still watching him doubtfully. “Okay, if you’re really sure.”

“I’m really sure.” Jack straightens up, holding a fresh t-shirt and pair of shorts. “And for what it’s worth, I bet you’ll be a better roommate than Shitty. I’m guessing you’re going to wear pants.”

It startles a laugh out of Bittle. “Well, that much I can assure you.”

*

No one feels much like making an elaborate dinner that night, not even Bittle, who’d devoted his energy into making a pan of brownies and a strawberry cream puff cake. They settle for making two boxes of mac and cheese in a big stock pot, and Bittle doctors it up with some spices and baked chicken. When the sunlight starts to wane, they start a fire in the fire pit and retire to the yard with the s’more ingredients and one of the cases of beer. The mood is mellow, and the sparks from the fire spiral up into the darkening sky as they talk.

Shitty and Lardo do a lot of talking to each other, Jack notices. He might not have if he didn’t _know_ , but since he does, he catches all kinds of little tells: the way their hands linger when one passes the other a beer, how they lean together and laugh as they help each other assemble their s’mores. They’re not even acting overtly coupley, but Jack can see that something is different. It’s obvious and electric and strange.

A rustle at his side interrupts Jack’s musings. It’s Bittle, offering him the marshmallows again. Jack groans. “How far do you want me to have to run tomorrow?”

Bittle shakes the bag at him. “Exactly zero miles,” he says. “This is a vacation.”

With a put-upon sigh, Jack fishes out a marshmallow and skewers it. “Well, we’ll see about that,” he grouses, but it’s good-natured in the face of Bittle’s satisfied smirk. Jack pokes the stick toward the fire, trying not to ignite the damn thing and failing. Again.

“My Moo Maw’s like you,” Bittle comments, watching Jack blow out the flames licking up one side of the marshmallow. “She likes burning ‘em instead of roasting ‘em. It’s the one thing we don’t agree on, food-wise.”

Jack grimaces. “I don’t really like them this way. I just keep messing them up.”

Bittle immediately retracts the graham cracker he’d readied for Jack to use. “You don’t know how to toast marshmallows?”

“I didn’t know there was a right way or a wrong way,” Jack says, feeling suddenly foolish, still holding the skewer out so it’s hovering awkwardly between them. “I thought you just, you know —” he gestures toward the fire “— put them in there.”

“Oh, hon.” Bittle pats his arm and smiles, and Jack feels his ruffled feathers smoothing out. “We are going to have a _lesson_. Burn that one off the stick, then I am going to teach you a thing or two.”

Jack does as he’s instructed. “Going to show me the error of my ways, eh?”

“With pleasure,” Bittle says. “Don’t y’all toast marshmallows up in Canada?”

Keeping his eyes on the task at hand, Jack shrugs. He’s sure plenty of people in Canada do, in fact, toast marshmallows, but he doesn’t have a lot of experience with it. There’s an outdoor fireplace at his family’s cabin instead of a fire pit, and most of their food is prepared on his father’s latest state-of-the-art grill. “Sure,” he replies, “but I was too busy taming my pet moose to learn.”

Bittle snorts. “You were too busy counting down the days until winter so you could get back on the ice,” he banters back.

“All five of them,” Jack quips.

When Jack’s marshmallow loses its tenuous grip on the stick and slides into the fire, Bittle presents him with a new one and an eager smile. The firelight flickers over his face, painting it even rosier than usual. He skewers one for himself as well and scoots forward on his chair. “All right,” he starts, shooting Jack a playful look. “What you’re doing is making a rookie mistake, trying to use the fire to get the job done.”

“Uh oh,” Lardo cuts in from across the pit. “Sounds like someone’s getting Bits’s _how-to-toast-a-perfect-marshmallow_ lecture.”

“Jack, brah, you are in _tro-uble_ ,” Shitty sing-songs.

Bittle brandishes his skewer at them. “Do either of you deny that it works?”

“Not for a second,” Shitty says, and Lardo’s only response is to take a big bite of the s’more in her hand and hold it up like she’s making a toast.

“Now,” Bittle continues, “as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the idea isn’t to use the fire itself, but to find some good coals. Like here.” He gestures with his stick at a bed of glowing coals at the base of the fire in front of Jack. “You could use that. It’s even better over on this side, because there’s a bunch of coals with a log over it, see? It almost makes a little oven.”

Jack cranes over to look. “That makes sense.” And, because he’s feeling comfortable and playful, leans across Bittle to stick his marshmallow into the opening Bittle had indicated.

“Hey!” Bittle exclaims with a laugh. “You big lug, who said you could steal my marshmallow spot?”

“I don’t see your name on it,” Jack retorts as Bittle scoots his chair over a few inches. Jack follows, giving himself better access. “Besides, you can use it too. There’s plenty of room; we’ll both fit.”

“Well, this is getting kinky,” Lardo mutters. “You’re both going to put your sticks in?”

Jack chuckles as Bittle lets out an indignant squawk. “Not another peep out of you, Larissa Duan,” he scolds, then turns back to Jack with a huff. “So now you’re just gonna want to rotate that marshmallow slowly until it’s done. Watch it to make sure it doesn’t get too dark for your liking. That’s about all there is to it.” And, despite Lardo’s needling, he maneuvers his skewer into the space beside Jack’s.

They’re all quiet for a time, eating and sipping beer and toasting marshmallows. Jack manages to achieve a perfect golden brown, to Bittle’s glowing praise, and the s’more he makes with it tastes perfect.

It’s about then that he notices that Bittle is shivering. Their chairs are still shoved close together, which gives Jack ample opportunity to notice how he’s trembling, with the arm not holding his s’more curled tightly around his own midsection. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers and a faded Samwell Men’s Hockey t-shirt, which seems like more than enough to Jack, but then again, Bittle is from down South.

Before Jack has even thought it all the way through, he strips off his zip-front sweatshirt and drapes it over Bittle’s shoulders. “Oh!” Bittle exclaims. He looks unsure, even as he takes delicate hold of it with his fingertips and inches farther into it. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re cold,” Jack says.

“Not _that_ cold.”

“You’re shaking.”

Bittle huffs and snuggles into the sweatshirt. “It’s just the wind.”

“So keep that on in case there’s more of it,” Jack counters. He’s not sure why they’re arguing, especially when Bittle looks like he’s getting comfortable.

“But won’t you be cold?”

Jack shakes his head. “Nope. Fire’s keeping me nice and warm.” It is, too, even though it clearly isn’t doing the same for Bittle.

“Oh,” Bittle says. He wraps the sweatshirt fully around himself and gives Jack a shy, grateful smile. “Well, thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Jack replies, feeling suddenly awkward. “You taught me how to make the perfect marshmallow.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Shitty calls from the other side of the fire. “Didn’t I fucking tell you?”

Bittle gives him an exasperated look. “You did _not_.”

Shitty’s answering cackle carries out over the water, and Jack relaxes back into his chair and the easy company of his friends.

*

Jack’s the first one into their shared bedroom that night. Bittle had stopped off in the kitchen to put a few things away, and Shitty and Lardo had peeled off to — well, Jack doesn’t really want to think too hard about what they might be doing. Instead, he changes into a fresh t-shirt and athletic shorts, because he’d rather be over than underdressed. The room feels stuffy, maybe from the heat of the day or because it hasn’t been aired out in who knows how long. Jack cracks the window and then stands at the end of the bed. And stares at it.

He could get in, of course. Hell, he wants to do that; he’s tired after a long day of driving and relaxing and eating way too much food. He feels suddenly strange about doing it, though, like he would be acting presumptuous. Not that that makes any sense.

Bittle walks in a moment later, slowing visibly when he catches sight of Jack, who’s still just standing there. Something anxious and confused flits across his features. “Um, is everything okay?” he asks, glancing from Jack to the bed and back.

“What? Oh, yeah, Everything’s fine,” Jack stammers. “I just — I wasn’t sure if you have a side? Of the bed?” He’s not entirely sure why this is so weird. Back when he’d played hockey, he’d shared hotel rooms and even beds with guys he didn’t know very well.

Bittle blinks. “Uh, sure. I guess — this one,” he says, indicating the side he’s standing on, closer to the door. The right side, from where Jack is standing at the foot of it.

“Perfect,” Jack replies. And it is, because he’d choose the other one anyway. Instead of climbing in, though, Jack squats to rummage in his duffel. “I’m going to brush my teeth.” He retreats, and when he returns to the bedroom, Bittle is already in bed, almost completely under the covers, only the very top of his head visible. It’s — endearing.

It also doesn’t allow Jack to see whether Bittle’s asleep or not, so he errs on the side of caution, tiptoeing across the room and wincing when a floorboard squeaks.

“It’s okay,” Bittle’s voice emerges, muffled, from the bedclothes. “I’m still awake. You don’t have to pussyfoot around.”

Jack snorts and walks normally the rest of the way over to his bag. “For all I know, you could be dead. Can you even breathe like that?”

“Of course I can, silly,” Bittle calls back. He snuggles further in.

“I just wouldn’t want all that marshmallow toasting expertise to be lost forever,” Jack retorts. He eases under what’s left of the covers on the other side of the bed, stretching out on his back but making sure to leave some space between himself and Bittle. The lamp is on the table next to him, and he reaches up to turn it off, casting the room in darkness.

Jack expects to drop off quickly, but he doesn’t. Even though he can’t see Bittle and they’re not touching, Jack finds himself strangely aware that he’s not in the bed by himself. Bittle is a small but solid presence on the mattress beside him, and he shifts around enough that Jack thinks he isn’t sleeping yet either.

He’s proved right when Bittle’s voice emerges tentatively from the lump of blankets. “Jack?”

“Hmmm?”

“You don’t snore, do you?”

“Like a chainsaw.”

Bittle doesn’t respond to that right away. “Really?” he finally asks.

“I have no idea. You can tell me in the morning.” A faint grumbling noise is Bittle’s only response, and Jack chuckles. “Good night, Bittle.”

“’Night, Jack.”

  


**FRIDAY**

When he wakes up the next morning, Jack is very aware that he’s not alone in the bed. This is, in large part, because Bittle’s feet are tangled in between his calves. And they’re freezing.

Jack cracks his eyes open to see that not only has Bittle curled toward him in the night, apparently he’d rolled onto his side and is now facing Bittle as well. Bittle’s still barely visible under the covers, and he’s smashed into a pillow now, which he’s hugging between them. The backs of his fingertips are just brushing Jack’s forearm. It’s barely a touch, but somehow, it’s startlingly intimate. The whole moment feels fragile, in a way that makes Jack think of the spun sugar decorations Bittle had demonstrated on his baking vlog once. Jack stays stock still so that he doesn’t ruin it, taking careful, measured breaths.

There really isn’t any reason not to extricate himself and get up. In fact, he probably should do just that, because Bittle’s feet are cold enough to be uncomfortable against his legs, and there isn’t even much of Bittle to see — just a few messy tufts of blond hair. But it’s nice, and Jack’s first instinct is to explain it away as a novelty: it’s been a long time since he’s woken up in bed with someone. Even as he thinks it, it occurs to him that he’s wrong. In fact, it happened just a few months ago, when Shitty had one too many at Jack’s apartment and crashed there. That, however, had been an entirely different experience — it had involved a lot more drool and a lot less heat suffusing through Jack’s chest and down into his belly.

 _That_ realization is enough to make Jack blink and slide back, trying to get out from under the covers without disturbing Bittle’s sleep. It turns out to be impossible, with the way their legs are twined together, and Bittle stirs. “Jack?” he mumbles.

“Go back to sleep,” Jack whispers. “I’m getting up to run.”

And Bittle must really not be a morning person, because at any other time of day, Jack’s sure that would elicit a scolding, or at least a retort. Instead, Bittle just tucks himself in more firmly, curling his legs up on his own side of the bed. “Okay,” he says, muffled, into the pillow.

Jack gives a soft, fond chuckle and collects his duffel bag so he can change in the bathroom and leave Bittle in peace.

*

When Jack gets outside, the air is early-morning crisp and golden with sun. He takes in a deep lungful of air to savor the piney scent of it and sets off. The cabin is on a narrow road that crumbles into the forest on either side, with other signs of civilization few and far between. Jack can only hear the wind, and birdsong, and the scuffing sound of his own footsteps. He likes it. Running has been helping him keep an even keel for years, and it’s even better here. He feels like he’s all alone on some uninhabited stretch of earth. No one knows exactly where he is — hell, he doesn’t even know exactly where he is — and he doesn’t have a responsibility in the world. Or at least he can pretend like he doesn’t for now.

The cabin is still quiet and sleepy when Jack returns, so he does a few stretches on the back porch, looking down over the water. He’s surprised when the door opens behind him and Lardo slips out, drowning in sweats that might be hers or might not, carrying a mug of coffee. “Oh, hey,” Jack says. “I didn’t know anyone else was up.”

“I shouldn’t be,” Lardo replies. She curls up in one of the chairs, tucking her bare feet underneath herself. “Just done sleeping, I guess.”

“Shits drooling on you?” Jack suggests. “That got me out of bed the last time we shared.”

Lardo smirks. “It’s not that bad.”

“If you say so.” Jack drops down onto the porch to stretch his lower back, holding for a few seconds before switching positions. “Are you happy, Lards? This is something you want?” he asks, quiet and hesitant, not sure if he’s crossing some conversational line in the sand — but it’s _Lardo_. If she doesn’t want to answer, she’ll tell him.

And she doesn’t right away. When Jack looks up at her, she’s holding her mug thoughtfully under her chin and staring off into the distance. She takes a sip. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

“There’s a lot of shit to figure out yet. But it’s good.”

“Good,” Jack repeats, and he feels like he means it a little more now. Hearing her say it is more settling than standing in the face of Shitty’s nervous bluster. “I’m happy for you guys.”

Lardo smiles, and it’s a little knowing. “Are you?”

“I am.”

“I am too.”

As much as Jack loves Shitty, it’s a relief to have a friend with whom he can say so little and have it mean so much.

*

It’s the rumble of Jack’s stomach that finally propels them inside. There, they find Bittle, whisking something in a bowl. He’s rumpled, and looks like he’s wearing at least three layers of clothes. “Morning, Bits,” Lardo greets him. “Warm enough?”

“I am _now_ ,” he says. “Especially since I closed the window that someone opened last night.”

Jack winces. “It was stuffy. Sorry, Bittle.”

“You made up for it at least,” Bittle says lightly as he retrieves a frying pan from one of the cupboards, which is covered over with a thick piece of fabric instead of a door. “You’re a good space heater.”

The comment unaccountably brings heat to Jack’s face and he rummages in the refrigerator to hide it. He emerges with a protein shake and finds Lardo arching an eyebrow at him. “Well, your feet make good ice packs,” he fires back.

Lardo’s face relaxes, and she snorts as she rinses out her coffee mug. “You want the shower, Jack? Speak now or hold your peace for twenty minutes because I’m getting in there.”

Jack holds up his half-finished shake. “Go ahead. I’ll take a turn when I’m done with this.”

“Cool.”

Once he’s alone with Bittle, Jack finds himself fumblingly unsure of what to say, which is definitely odd. Ever since he’d allowed himself to give Bittle a chance, their rapport has been easy. Maybe they’re not exactly uneasy now — Bittle seems comfortable enough, anyway, portioning out pancake batter like he’s done it a million times before. He probably has. On the other hand, he’s not saying anything either.

 _Nothing is different_ , Jack tells himself. _You’re just being weird_.

He takes another swig of his protein shake.

Then, he jumps a mile when Bittle says, “Jack? Do you mind cracking eggs for me? Maybe eight or so, into one of those big bowls? I want to scramble some up quick.”

“Sure,” Jack replies, relieved to have something to do. He retrieves one of the multiple cartons of eggs that Bittle had picked up at the grocery store and takes over a corner of the counter. It puts him in closer proximity to Bittle, and he looks down at his still-damp exercise clothes doubtfully. “As long as you don’t mind that I just got back from a run.”

“You forget that I played hockey,” Bittle reminds him. “There’s no way you can smell worse than that locker room all by your lonesome.”

“I don’t know, Bittle. I was a hockey player too. I’m capable of smelling pretty bad.”

“Not as bad as twenty of ‘em,” Bittle points out, glancing over to meet Jack’s eyes for the first time that morning, a smile tugging one corner of his mouth.

Jack returns it. “I certainly hope not.”

Bittle holds his gaze for a moment, then visibly collects himself and nods at the egg carton. “Get cracking, mister.”

Jack does.

*

Once everyone has eaten, bathed, and dressed, they pile into Jack’s truck and find a beach. It’s not like someplace tropical: it’s not warm enough, for one thing. The wind sailing in over the Atlantic is enough to dissuade even Jack from stripping down and diving in — though he probably still would if anyone else were willing. The sand is brown and damp, scattered liberally with rocks and seaweed, especially close to the water. They spread out two blankets far back from the shore, where the ground is the driest, and sprawl out, snacking and chatting lazily. There are a few other people out enjoying the weather, but no one’s close enough to hear their conversation.

Jack would be content to stay right where he is for hours, moving only to swat away the occasional mosquito or blackfly, but Lardo nudges Shitty’s shoulder before long. “Come on and walk with me,” she says. “I want to look for sea glass.”

They climb to their feet and amble toward the waterline, and as Jack watches them go, Lardo slips her hand into Shitty’s. It makes his stomach twinge, but before he can focus on that, he gets distracted by movement at his side. It’s Bittle, gathering up the blanket that Shitty and Lardo had been sitting on and wrapping it around his shoulders. Jack smirks at him. “This whole trip is making me wonder if you even produce body heat at all, Bittle. You aren’t cold-blooded, are you?”

“Hush, you,” Bittle scolds, rolling his eyes. “I am a red-blooded Southern boy, emphasis on the Southern. This is fall weather.”

Jack shrugs and flops out on his back. The position doesn’t allow him to watch the sunlight sparkling over the ocean, but it has the advantage of being much more comfortable than propping himself up. He almost invites Bittle to tuck into his side, but certainly _that_ would be weird. “I think it’s nice.”

“Well, surprise surprise,” Bittle drawls. “The Canadian thinks fifty degrees is balmy. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”

The burst of laughter Jack lets out startles even himself. “It’s not _that_ cold. And why am I buttering your butt?”

Even through his sunglasses, Jack can see that Bittle is blushing. “It’s an expression! It means, like… well, color me shocked,” he explains, his voice weighing down the last few words with sarcasm.

“Who _says_ that?”

“My Moo Maw,” Bitty says immediately. “All of my mama’s church lady friends. It’s a Southern thing.”

“Emphasis on the Southern,” Jack adds.

“Emphasis on the Southern,” Bittle agrees.

It’s pleasant there on the sand, in the sun, occasionally trading a few chirps with Bittle between lapses of comfortable silence. Jack’s pretty sure he even dozes off once or twice, lulled by the warmth on his face and the sound of the waves. He’s half asleep, in fact, when Shitty and Lardo return. “Brahs!” Shitty exclaims, clearly excited about something, and Jack cracks his eyes open to squint up at him. “You’ve gotta come see what we found.”

“Sea glass?” Jack asks.

“Nah,” Lardo replies. She pats the pockets of her hoodie, which are bulging a little. “We’ve got plenty. You’ll like this better. Especially you, Bits.”

Bittle’s curious enough that he emerges from his blanket nest, and Jack climbs to his feet to follow. Shitty and Lardo lead them away from the ocean, to a knoll that swells up behind the beach, covered in long, tangled grasses and low, brambling plants that Shitty points to eagerly. “Check it the fuck out!”

Jack looks and — well, doesn’t see what he expected. “What?”

“It’s a blueberry patch,” Lardo explains, squatting to pluck a few. She holds them out on the flat of her palm, and they don’t look like the blueberries Jack is used to seeing in the grocery store. These are much smaller; they look hard and small, some not much bigger than peas. “Try ‘em.”

Bittle obliges immediately, but Jack says doubtfully, “I’m not really a huge fan of blueberries.”

Lardo extends her hand farther. “Try. Them. Trust me, you’ll be a fan of these.”

Bittle’s already going into some kind of rapture next to him, so Jack takes the last two berries from Lardo and pops them into his mouth. And they really are that fucking good, little bursts of sweet-tangy flavor that only bring to mind the word _fresh_. Jack cocks and eyebrow. “Wow.”

“Told you.”

They wade into the low bushes, slapping mosquitoes, to pick and eat berries to their hearts’ content. Bittle laments that they don’t have any way to carry enough back to the cabin to make a pie, until he has a wave of inspiration and runs back to their blankets to dump some of their salty snacks together, freeing up a bag that he happily uses for blueberry transportation. He beams up at Jack when they happen to drift closer together, his hands stained with blueberry juice. There’s the faintest smear of it along his lower lip, too. Jack reflexively licks his own, tasting salt. “I hope you like blueberry pie, mister,” Bittle says.

Jack smiles. “I think I’ll like this one.”

*

When they get back to the cabin, Shitty tugs Jack aside. “Lards and I are going to go for a nice, romantic stroll. Do you mind?”

“Would it matter if I did?” Jack asks.

Shitty looks wounded at the implication. He actually presses a dismayed palm to his chest. “Brah, of course. This is your vacation too. I want you to have a good time.”

“I am having a good time,” Jack reassures him. “It’s giving me the chance to get to know Bittle better.”

“It is, isn’t it,” Shitty says thoughtfully, regarding Jack with a critical eye that Jack — doesn’t really like.

So he frowns right back. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing, my man. Nothing at all. Just observing that you and Bitty _are_ spending a lot of time together.”

“Because you and Lardo are spending a lot of time together,” Jack points out, speaking slowly.

“Right, right,” Shitty says. “That’s what I meant. And now, my lady awaits.”

Jack looks past his shoulder, where Lardo is hovering, tracing a pattern in the gravel driveway with the toe of one sandal. “Go.”

Shitty kisses his cheek sloppily and bounds away. All Jack can do is shake his head and walk inside, where he finds Bittle in the kitchen — of course — somehow halfway through making pie crust dough already. “Don’t you usually use a —” Jack casts around for the right word “—a blender for that?”

Bittle laughs. “A food processor?”

“Sure,” Jack says with a shrug. “That.”

“Sometimes,” Bittle replies, still smiling like Jack just told the funniest joke. “But I can just mix it up by hand, too. Come over here and I’ll show you.”

So Jack lets himself get roped in, ends up elbows-deep in flour, his hands plunged into the bowl with Bittle’s as Bittle shows him how to check the texture of the dough. He finds that he’s enjoying himself, probably because Bittle’s enthusiasm is infectious. They’re standing close together at the counter, and Bittle is so in his element and so happy that it’s like he’s throwing off sparks. He bundles discs of dough away in the refrigerator, and they’re partway through the filling when Shitty and Lardo turn back up. Bittle promptly shoos them away, which neither of them seem very upset about. They settle outside, and the smell of weed drifts back in through the window a moment later.

“You can go join them if you want,” Bittle says. He’s at the sink, picking over and rinsing the blueberries, turned mostly away from Jack with his eyes downcast, so Jack can’t see his expression. Does he _want_ Jack to leave?

“I’d rather stay in here, if that’s okay,” Jack replies carefully. “We can start getting things ready for dinner. Unless you want to join them.”

Bittle shoots him a small smile over one shoulder. “I know it’s ridiculous, and I know I’m an adult and I make my own choices and all that, but my mama would _kill_ me. And she’d know somehow, too. I’d hate to give her another reason to be upset with me.”

Jack blinks at him. “Since when is your mom upset with you?” From everything he’s ever heard and everything Bittle’s ever said, he and his mother are best friends.

“Oh, since I started using my Aunt Judy’s jam recipe and dating men,” Bittle replies, his voice deliberately light.

And Jack wishes he had the right thing to say, something to make Bittle laugh or something to comfort him, but all he manages is an awkward, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Bittle says. He stirs the filling with brisk strokes. “Lord, listen to me, bringing the mood down. She’s coming around, and I think she’ll get there eventually.”

“Still, that’s hard.” Jack leans back against the counter, looking at the tense line of Bittle’s shoulders. “My parents were really supportive, and I —”

“You,” Bittle interrupts, “…date men?”

Jack shrugs. “Yeah. And women. I — I thought you knew? I mean, when we played that game in the car…”

“I guess… I wasn’t a hundred percent sure,” Bittle clarifies, stirring with renewed vigor. “And Shitty was an equal opportunity _Fuck, Marry, Kill_ player too, but he’s straight.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Well, I’m not,” Jack finally says.

“Okay,” Bittle replies. He goes still and quiet again, then erupts in a flurry of motion, turning from the sink and pouring the berries into a bowl. “All right, if you’re gonna stick around, there’s plenty of work left to do on this pie. Want to learn how to make a lattice crust?”

Relief at the subject change rushes over Jack. “Sure.”

And that’s that. He and Bittle finish the pie and start working on their dinner, shucking corn and prepping burgers and chicken for the grill, which Jack takes command of while Bittle stays inside to make potato salad. That night, there are no s’mores around the fire because they’re still too full.

*

The night ends much like the one before: Shitty and Lardo disappear, and Jack retreats to the bedroom to change while Bittle puts the leftovers away (Jack tries to help, but Bittle swats him away with a little “don’t be silly; it won’t take a minute!”). Jack’s gotten as far as swapping his shorts when Bittle slips in. He’s mid-ramble before he’s even got the door closed behind him — “Can you believe that _now_ I feel hungry? But I don’t really want to eat something at this time of —”

He cuts himself off as he gets a good look at Jack, who’s standing half-naked beside the bed, rummaging through his duffel bag for the t-shirt he’d slept in the night before, which had somehow disappeared even though it had been on his body just that morning. Jack goes still and Bittle freezes as well, standing just inside the door, his gaze dropping to Jack’s torso. His eyebrows twitch up, just a little, but his face is oddly neutral, and Jack isn’t really sure how to read that reaction. He wonders, fleetingly, what Bittle sees when he looks at him — Jack’s not in professional athlete shape, but he’s fit, a happy byproduct of his regular, mood-boosting workout routine. He finds himself straightening, nudging his shoulders back and his chest out, before he gives himself a mental shake and stops.

It doesn’t matter. And it’s not like it’s a big deal; he runs without his shirt on sometimes when it’s hot, and he passes all kinds of people. It’s not like Bittle’s seeing something private. It’s not like he’s naked.

That’s a thought.

Bittle recovers himself in the same split-second, clears his throat, and averts his eyes. “And anyway, my mama always said that sleeping with a full stomach gives you nightmares. I don’t know if that’s scientific fact, but lord knows I don’t wanna test it tonight.”

“It doesn’t sound very scientific to me,” Jack says, digging into his bag again and finally emerging with a well-worn Harvard Law t-shirt.

“You hush, Jack Zimmermann,” Bittle chides. He kneels to extract his own sleepwear from his duffel. “My mama’s word is _law_.”

Jack tugs the shirt on. “I don’t doubt it for a second. Just not sure if there’s been much research about that.”

“Right,” Bittle says, standing up. He locks eyes with Jack across the bed. “I, um — I’m just gonna go change. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Jack replies, and Bittle scurries from the room.

Jack drops his duffel bag back on the floor and climbs into the bed. He props himself up against the pillows and checks his email on his phone while he waits. The window isn’t open tonight, so he only covers himself with the sheet, kicking most of the blankets over to Bittle’s side of the bed.

When Bittle comes back in, Jack glances up reflexively — and almost drops his phone.

“What?” Bittle asks self-consciously, looking down at himself.

“Um, nothing,” Jack says. He tightens his grip on the phone. Just to secure it. “Is that what you wore to sleep in last night?”

Bittle drops his clothes on top of his bag and crosses his arms over his stomach. “Yes. Is there something wrong with it?” He sounds equal parts defensive and uncertain.

And… no. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it, Jack thinks. It’s just that the shorts Bittle’s wearing are… well, really very short. It’s just surprising, that’s all. Obviously, Jack hadn’t seen them, since Bittle had been in bed before Jack and stayed there after Jack got up. But he’d been there, all night, next to Jack, wearing not only those shorts, but also a tank top that’s almost threadbare.

Jack looks up to see that Bittle’s expression is growing more troubled by the second, and — oh yeah, he’s supposed to be answering that question. “No, I just — thought you wore something else,” Jack lies. He locks his phone and sets it aside.

“Okay,” Bittle says doubtfully. He climbs under the covers and spends a few seconds nestling in just so, which Jack watches with amusement, even though it seems like he’s doing it as far from Jack as possible.

There’s nothing for Jack to do but switch off the light and settle down himself.

“Good night, Jack,” Bittle says, quiet and muffled.

“Good night, Bittle.”

*

When Jack wakes up, it’s sudden and jolting, and his eyes pop open to inky darkness. Bittle is digging out from under the covers, kicking his legs away from where they’ve found Jack’s again. “What _was_ that?” he hisses.

“I don’t — what was what?” Jack asks. He sits up and scrubs one hand down his face.

“That noise!” Bittle exclaims. “Didn’t you hear it?”

“I think so?” It comes out as a question, because suddenly Jack isn’t so sure. He thought he’d been woken up by a noise, but maybe it had just been Bittle’s flailing. Everything is strange and disorienting at — Jack rotates his arm to bring his fitness tracker to life and — “ _Crisse_. It’s two-thirty in the morning.”

Bittle is sitting up too now, but he doesn’t make any move to get out of the bed. “What if someone’s breaking in?” he whispers.

“Why would anyone break into some little cabin in the middle of the woods?”

“To murder us! Haven’t you ever seen a horror movie?”

“Not many of them.”

“Of course you haven’t.”

They’re interrupted by the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps out in the main living area. Bittle squeaks, but Shitty’s voice floats in a moment later: “I don’t think it’s gonna be a bear, but I promise that if it is, I will run right the fuck back in here, okay?”

Jack swings his legs off the side of the mattress and starts fumbling around for his shoes. “I’m going out there.”

Bittle’s hand lands on his arm. “But what if it _is_ a bear?”

Jack chuckles and reaches up to pat Bittle’s wrist before boosting himself to his feet. “I thought you said it was a mass murderer?”

“It could be that too!”

“Then I’m not letting Shitty wander around out there by himself. You can stay here if you want.”

But Bittle’s already scrambling out from under the covers. “I’m not staying in here alone!” he exclaims, and he follows Jack out the door, wrapping one of the blankets from the bed around himself and dragging it behind him as he goes.

When they emerge, they find Lardo near the porch door, craning to look out. “Do you see anything?” Jack asks, and Bittle presses in against her other side, peeking through the window. There’s not much to see beyond the halo of the porch light.

“Nope,” she says, then points at the door, her fingertip tapping along the surface of the window. “It came from our side of the cabin, so Shits went that way.”

Jack tries to nudge them both aside. “Let me out so I can help him look.”

He’s just reaching for the knob when Shitty appears suddenly on the other side, making them all jump back. They hurriedly make room for him to enter, which he does, looking — considerably less concerned than he would have if he’d discovered a bear or an axe murderer. At the barrage of questions he’s greeted with, Shitty says, “Whoa! Chill out, m’dudes. I think it was just a couple of trash pandas.”

Bittle looks at him blankly. “What?”

“Raccoons,” Shitty explains. His face goes sheepish. “It’s, ah — it’s possible that someone didn’t bungee down the lid of the garbage can after dinner.”

Shitty cringes like he’s waiting for a reprimand, but Jack just exchanges shrugs with the others. “Oh well,” he finally says. “Is it on there now?”

“Yup,” Shitty confirms.

Jack nods. “Okay.”

“I’m just glad we’re not about to live out some horror movie,” Bittle adds, drawing snorts from both Lardo and Jack.

Shitty gives an exaggerated yawn, stretching his arms dramatically. “I think that’s about all the excitement I can handle for one night. Let’s get all these beautiful asses back to bed, yeah?”

“Fine by me,” Bittle says, and they all shuffle back to their rooms. As Jack is shutting the door, he glances across the cabin to see Shitty drop his hand to the small of Lardo’s back in what looks like an already-familiar gesture, and it makes something in Jack twist and ache — not for Lardo, or Shitty for that matter, but for… something.

It’s a strange enough feeling that it prevents Jack from falling asleep again. For whatever reason, it doesn’t seem like Bittle’s having any better luck; he shifts on the mattress again and again, letting out an annoyed huff of breath every so often.

“Everything okay?” Jack finally asks, after Bittle turns over for the twentieth time.

Bittle gives an annoyed-sounding huff. “I can’t get back to sleep.”

Jack considers this. “Do you need to put your feet on me? You can if it would help.”

A snort emerges from under the blankets. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Jack’s pretty sure he’s going to wake up with them there in the morning anyway. “All right,” he says. “Your loss, Bittle.”

There’s no response to that, and Jack thinks that maybe Bittle is finally drifting off. He’s starting to drowse himself when Bittle asks, still sounding very much awake, “Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you call me Bittle?”

Jack opens his eyes and frowns into the darkness. “I don’t know,” he says slowly, because he doesn’t. Maybe it’s because he knew Bittle as a hockey player, someone from Shitty’s team, before he knew him as a person, and he’s used to calling other hockey players by a last name or a nickname. That doesn’t even really make sense though, because Shitty certainly never called him _Bittle_.

“Well, you can call me Bitty if you want. Or Bits. Hell, call me Eric.”

If there’s one thing Bittle is not, it’s an Eric. Jack starts chuckling. “I could call you _Eric_ ,” he says, pronouncing the name in as French a manner as possible.

“Oh, lord,” Bittle groans. “Please don’t. If you call me _Eric_ even once, Shitty’ll never stop.” His own pronunciation is terrible and endearing.

Jack switches over to French immediately. « _Don’t you like the name Eric?_ »

Bittle makes a disgruntled noise. “You’d better not be saying anything bad about me, mister.”

« _And risk losing my pie privileges? Never._ »

“Jaaack.” Bittle darts a hand out under the covers to poke Jack in the shoulder. “Stop it. That’s not fair.”

Jack pokes him right back. « _I’ll just keep talking about pie since you can’t understand me. What kind of pie are you going to bake tomorrow, Eric?_ »

“Stop!”

« _What about the day after that?_ »

“This is a shocking display of bad manners, Mr. Zimmermann.”

« _But I’m being so polite!_ »

Bittle, who’s apparently had enough, just huffs and nestles in under the covers.

Jack feels a hint of remorse, and hopes that he hasn’t actually annoyed Bittle too badly. “Hey, Bittle?”

“Oh, so he can speak English,” Bittle snarks, sounding muffled and wounded.

“Debatable,” Jack fires back. He nudges Bittle’s blanket pile. “What if you spoke French?”

A snort issues forth from Bittle’s nest. “That’s not debatable, just plain impossible.”

Jack rolls onto his side, warming to the idea. “Come on, Bittle, give it a try. Repeat after me: _bonne_.”

“Bun,” Bittle says grudgingly, which, okay — close enough.

“Good! Now try this: _nuit_.”

“Newey.”

Jack very determinedly doesn’t laugh. “Now put them together. _Bonne nuit_.”

Instead of echoing him, Bittle asks, “What does it mean? You’d better not be teaching me something that would horrify my mama.”

It’s Jack’s turn to snort. “No, Bittle. It means good night.”

“Oh.” Bittle’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “Bun newey, _Jacques_.”

“Good night, _Eric_.”

  


**SATURDAY**

The next morning, Bittle makes some kind of French toast casserole along with fruit salad and bacon. They’re just finishing it up when the sound of a car door slamming carries in from outside. Shitty perks up and clambers to his feet, hurrying to the window. “Fuckin’ sweet!” he exclaims. “Nursey and Dex are here.”

“ _Shitty_ ,” Bittle hisses, “you didn’t say they’d be here for breakfast! I would have made a bigger casserole.” He casts a panicked look at the square pan he’d used, which contains nothing but crumbs. Even the fruit salad is mostly gone, just a few sad grapes in a puddle of juice.

“Brah, they’re not gonna care about that. They’re here to hang out. Well, and to fix the hole in the roof of the shed, but mostly to hang out. I’m sure Dex’s mom fed them, and you’ll make a shit ton of food later.”

“Have you ever known either of them to turn down food?” Bittle scoffs. He starts rummaging through the cupboards. “What can I make on short notice?” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “I could whip up some regular French toast, but I’m running out of eggs. And anyone can make plain toast. Cinnamon brown sugar toast?”

Lardo boosts herself up from the table. “Relax, Bits, they’re not going to be expecting anything.”

Bittle fixes her with a dubious look.

“Okay, they might have _some_ expectations, but it’s not like they’re gonna be pissed about it. We’ll stop for snacks on the way to the whale watching thing anyway,” she adds, then joins Shitty in going outside to greet their new visitors.

Jack turns back toward Bittle to find that he does _not_ look reassured. “It’s going to be okay, Bittle,” he adds, even though it’s probably pointless if Lardo hadn’t been able to calm him down.

Bittle frowns and sags against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s just so rude not to have something to offer guests,” he says mournfully. “I thought they wouldn’t be showing up for a few hours. I was going to use some of that leftover chicken to make hand pies for us to take with later.”

“You can still do that,” Jack points out.

“I will, but they’re here now,” Bittle grumbles.

Jack stands to put his plate in the sink. “They’re here to see you, not your food. Now come on, introduce me.”

Bittle is still a bit reluctant as he follows Jack outside, but he perks up considerably when he sees his former teammates. They greet Bittle with enthusiastic bro-hugs that threaten to engulf him, because they’re both considerably larger and taller. They’re taller than _Jack_ , but they both seem to shrink as they see him standing there, and they go quiet and wide-eyed.

“Brahs,” Shitty says grandly, “allow me to introduce one of the most beautiful motherfuckers you will ever have the pleasure of meeting, Jack Zimmermann.”

Jack waves, a gesture that even he can feel is awkward. “Hey. Nice to meet you.”

“And this,” Shitty continues, “is Derek Nurse —” the one with the toque who looks like a model “— and William Poindexter —” the redhead who’s managing to look sullen and shell-shocked at the same time “— but you can call them Nursey and Dex.”

They both mumble greetings.

There’s a moment of silence, in which Nursey and Dex keep staring at him, and Jack grows increasingly uncomfortable.

It’s broken when Shitty nudges Nursey in the shoulder, not even very hard, but somehow it sends him lurching into Dex, who shoves him off, looking irritated. “Brahskis,” Shitty says, “don’t make it weird.”

“He looks just like him though,” Dex hisses, and Nursey nods his agreement.

And — oh. _Oh_. Jack isn’t used to getting this reaction from people anymore, but it does make sense. They’re hockey players; they know who his father is. They probably know more about Jack than he’s strictly comfortable thinking about.

Before Jack can say anything, Shitty scoffs. “Please. He’s just a guy. He listens to dad rock. He likes _golf_. He’s totally boring, you’ll see.”

Nursey and Dex look dubious about that, but it at least breaks the ice enough for them to stop gaping. As Bittle rounds them all up to go inside, Shitty catches Jack’s eye and winks. _Thanks_ , Jack mouths back.

*

By the time they’re heading out for their whale watching excursion, Nursey and Dex have thawed out enough to start talking to Jack like it’s not weird — or at least like it’s less weird — and Jack has learned a little bit about them. They’re both going-to-be-senior D-men at Samwell, and Bittle interrupts to gush about how wonderfully they play together as a pair. For some reason, that makes Nursey look smug while Dex seems annoyed. Nursey is an English major from New York City. Dex is a Comp Sci major from Maine, and his uncle owns the whale watching boat they’ll be going out on. Jack already knows that, but he asks Dex about it because it actually gets him talking.

They all squeeze into the SUV for the trip, with an assortment of snacks and Bittle’s hand pies to sustain them. It’s raucous, as everyone else reminisces about their time together at Samwell and eagerly tell Jack story after story. Jack enjoys it thoroughly: he feels included but all he really has to do is nod and laugh as he drives, and he thinks it’s nice that they want to tell him all about it. He listens with interest to their tales of their time playing together, and grins across at Bittle, who’s in the passenger seat, when Shitty starts needling him fondly. “I didn’t get to win a championship because we needed this fucker’s leadership to do it,” he says, leaning forward to poke Bittle’s shoulder.

“Oh, hush you,” Bittle grumbles, but he goes pink and looks pleased.

The whale watching boat turns out to be an old lobster trawler with a fresh coat of paint and _Lucky Fluke_ splashed across the transom. There’s a wizened man on board who could be forty or sixty — Jack’s not really sure, and his weatherworn skin and graying beard don’t provide a solid answer — along with a younger, ruddy guy who helps steady anyone who needs help climbing in. They both offer Dex familiar, friendly greetings, and he lapses immediately into conversation with the older man about where they’ll be heading.

Jack straps on a life vest as instructed and sits beside Bittle on a bench at the rear of the boat. Bittle is grinning behind big, dark sunglasses, holding up his phone to take pictures of their boat and the ones surrounding them at the dock. “Excited, Bittle?” Jack asks, even though the answer is obvious.

“Trying not to get my hopes up,” Bittle answers with a rueful glance in Jack’s direction. “It’s a beautiful day to be out here either way, right?”

The boat’s engine comes to life, and Bittle sits up a little straighter, eyes scanning the marina like there might be a whale somewhere in it with them. Jack chuckles. “It is, but you still want to see one.”

“I do,” Bittle admits. He’s quiet for a moment as they reverse out of the slip and start down a narrow channel of water. “I suppose this is old hat for you. You probably swam with whales when you were little, didn’t you. You’ve probably ridden one.”

Jack laughs again. “Not in Montreal. But I have gone whale watching before, yes.”

Bittle sighs. “Well, don’t judge me for bein’ all excited if we _do_ see something.”

“It’s exciting every time,” Jack assures him. He meets Bittle’s eyes as best he can through Bittle’s sunglasses, and they share a smile.

As the boat leaves the shelter of the canal and noses into the mouth of a larger bay, the wind hits them more fully and a chop develops in the water. The boat jounces along steadfastly, and water sprays up over its sides, splashing across Jack and onto Bittle. He gasps and tries to tuck his phone into his sweatshirt, struggling with his life jacket. “Oh my goodness, that is _cold_!”

Even Jack has to admit that it’s pretty chilly. He shifts to try to shelter Bittle as much as he can, and Bittle cowers into his side, squealing every time any of the spray manages to make its way past Jack’s shoulder. Jack finds himself laughing aloud, even as the sleeve of his sweatshirt soaks through with rhythmic blasts of icy water. He curls his body into Bittle’s even more, and Bittle’s clinging to his other sleeve, giggling and complaining all at once and Jack is struck with a sudden realization: _there’s something going on here_.

It hits him like another wave, just as shocking and certain. He’s as sure of it as he is of Bittle’s fingers curled against his forearm, of Bittle’s bright blond head inches from his own, almost close enough to burrow into his shoulder. He wants to reach out and tuck Bittle into his chest, to shelter him while he grins into Bittle’s hair and Bittle squawks about the cold Atlantic water.

There’s something going on here.

A voice eventually worms its way into the bubble they’ve created, one made of cold water and warm cotton. “Brahs,” it says. “Yo, _brahs_.”

Disoriented, Jack blinks toward the sound, sees Shitty watching them with dubious amusement. “If you come up here, you won’t get splashed,” Shitty says.

It’s true: all of the others are seated on benches that line the sides of the boat, comfortable and dry. Jack immediately feels foolish, and he wonders how long everyone else has been watching them. He can feel himself flushing, and he nudges Bittle. “Maybe we should relocate, eh?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bittle agrees without hesitation, standing quickly to move to an open space beside Lardo, frowning down at the spatters of water on his jeans.

Jack sits across from him, beside Dex. The moment has been harshly shattered, and Jack wants nothing more than to deflect attention from whatever spectacle he and Bittle had just made. “So, uh,” he starts, directing the question at Dex, “where are we, exactly?”

“Headed out to the Bay of Fundy,” he replies. “Uncle Ray says there’s been a lot of minkes hunting between here and the Wolves the past few days.”

“Oh, are we in Canadian waters?”

“For a few minutes now.”

Jack sighs and stretches out his legs. “Feels good to be home,” he says, drawing a few chuckles from his friends and effectively easing the tension.

It really is a beautiful day to be out on the water, which is glittering for miles in the bright sunshine. There’s not a cloud for as far as Jack can see, from horizon to horizon, where the sky touches the water or the distant gray spits of land that make up the shores of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. And even if they don’t end up finding any whales, there’s plenty to see — porpoises flit quickfire out of the water, and seals watch with huge, dark eyes as the boat passes. The seals’ heads look like rocks or driftwood peeking up above the surface, until they reveal themselves by moving or disappearing entirely. Bittle is delighted by all of it.

Even Jack can’t help but enjoy himself, allowing the sunshine and the salt air and the excitement of his friends wash away whatever anxieties might be brewing in the face of whatever he’s feeling about Bittle. They’re all hanging over the sides of the boat, pointing at and trying to take pictures of everything from seals to seagulls — and, not long after, the misty plumes of whale spouts in the distance, barely visible against the distant landscape.

The energy in the _Lucky Fluke_ ratchets up at least double when Dex’s uncle points them out, so feathery and far-off that Jack can hardly see them. Dex’s cousin starts working the radio, listening in on the chatter from the other whale watching boats in the area. He looks up at Ray and grins. “Fins, two of ‘em.”

Ray immediately puts the boat in motion, motoring in the general direction of the jets they’d spotted. “Fins?” Jack asks Dex. “Don’t they all have fins?”

Dex snorts. “Finback whales,” he explains, looking more amused and less self-conscious. At Jack’s blank look, he adds, “Those are big ones. Ray’ll tell you all about them while we’re out there. Fins can get up to sixty, sixty-five feet long. Their hearts are the size of Volkswagen Beetles.”

“Fucking _wicked_ ,” Shitty shouts. Bittle and Lardo are leaning over the side of the boat, craning to look out ahead of it, though there isn’t anything to see. Even Jack feels a spark of excitement in his chest, and he pulls his phone out of his pocket to get it ready.

Ray kills the motor when they approach the area of the bay where the whales had surfaced. Several other boats are hovering nearby, from zodiacs to huge vessels hung with flags and packed with spectators. “These guys’ll blow two or three times, then go down for ten minutes or so,” Ray says, speaking into the bated silence on the boat. “Give it another couple minutes, then we’ll see ‘em again.”

Everything seems to be hanging in suspended animation: the boat is quiet in the water, and everyone on it is soundlessly scanning their surroundings. Jack is afraid to breathe for fear he might miss something. Just as he’s starting to wonder if maybe the whales aren’t coming back up at all, he hears a noisy puff from behind him like someone putting a nail in a giant tire. Like something huge is releasing a lungful of air. He spins to see the vapory plume hanging in the air, another lifting to join it as the second whale smoothly breaks the surface to breathe.

They’re close, closer than Jack had expected, maybe twenty or thirty feet off their starboard side. Everyone clambers to the rail, and Jack lets Bittle get in front of him — it’s only fair when he can see clear over Bittle anyway. Bittle is recording video with his phone and murmuring aloud, a steady “oh my lord, oh my lord, oh my _lord_ ” that Jack’s not even sure he’s aware of. The whales come up again a moment later, first one then the other, breaking the surface and breathing in a graceful rhythm, the sun gleaming along their wet, dark gray skin. Even as Jack watches them, he has a hard time imagining the immense entirety of the animals beneath the water, just from the brief glimpse he’s allowed.

The whales spout once more, and then their backs curve as they prepare for a deeper dive.

An excited murmur breaks out on deck, and Jack finds that he’s pressed forward into Bittle’s back, partially by Nursey, who’s half behind him, and partially because he just… is. Equal parts embarrassed and reluctant, he steps back, and Bittle twists to face him, pushing his sunglasses back onto his head. “Jack, oh my _word_! Did you see that?”

Jack’s immediate instinct is to tease (of _course_ he saw them, Bittle; they were only a few meters away), but instead he just smiles. “Yeah, Bittle. I saw it.”

*

They stay on the water for hours, longer than a usual tour because they’re friends of family — or, in Jack’s case, friends of friends of family. After tailing the fin whales for a while, they explore other areas of the bay and the coastline, pointing out eagles, and more seals and porpoises, and minke whale after minke whale. They’re smaller than the fins, but still fun to point out and exclaim over. Ray laughs and says, “I’m going to start charging you per whale,” which is a joke, because he’s not charging them anything. The air on the water is cold, but the sun is bright and the sky and the water are blue. It’s a good day.

On the way back to the cabin, they’re leisurely, taking time to stop in at a gift shop or two, then spending almost two hours at a seafood shack. They stuff themselves in the most stereotypical manner possible, ordering messy lobster rolls with chips and crab cakes and clam chowder, eating all of it outside at a wooden table. They only leave when the mosquitoes drive them away, and it’s dark by the time they rattle up the gravel driveway. Jack — to a chorus of good-natured chirping — opts to head to bed instead of staying up with everyone else.

It’s not without good reason: it’s been an exhausting few days, and he falls asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow. He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later, blinking his eyes open in the darkness as someone slides between the sheets on the other side of the mattress. “Bittle?” he mutters.

“Jack? Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I was trying not to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, yawning and rearranging himself. “What time is it?”

“Around midnight, I think,” Bittle replies as he curls up under the covers. “Maybe a little later than that.”

“Oh, that’s earlier than I would have thought.” Jack had expected the Samwell crew to be up until the wee hours of the morning, reminiscing and drinking.

Bittle snorts. “Early? You’ve been asleep for an hour or two already.”

“Early for you party animals,” Jack fires back, and Bittle just snorts again. It’s a chirp, but speaking of which — “Did you have any water? I’ve got a bottle over here if you need some,” Jack offers.

“I don’t need water, but thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

Bittle struggles with the bedsheets until he can poke at Jack, catching him in the pectoral. “Do I sound drunk to you, Mr. Zimmermann? I had one beer at dinner and one since then. I’m perfectly fine.”

He actually doesn’t sound any worse for wear, so Jack believes him. “Well, it’s there if you want it.”

“And people think _I’m_ the mom friend.”

Bittle is definitely the mom friend, but Jack isn’t about to say so. “Just trying to be helpful, Bittle.”

“Well, that’s very sweet of you,” he replies, sounding more genuine.

They lapse into silence, but Jack finds himself wide awake, staring into the darkness. It’s hard to sleep again now that he knows how he feels and Bittle is only a few inches away. He’s close enough that Jack can hear that his breathing isn’t evening out either, and that’s before Bittle turns over, shifts his legs, then flips again.

“I know you didn’t take me up on it last night,” Jack finally says, “but really, if your feet are cold —”

Bittle sighs and flops onto his back. “It’s not that. I’m just… awake, I guess.”

“Yeah, me too.”

There’s a quiet scoff from Bittle’s side of the bed. “Who are you and what have you done with Jack Zimmermann?”

Jack lets his head flop toward Bittle and narrows his eyes, even though he can barely see anything and he doubts that Bittle can either. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t fool me,” Bittle replies archly. “I know you. I know what time you go to bed, and it’s before there’s even any good TV on.”

“Exactly,” Jack says. “I’ve usually gotten a full night’s sleep by now.”

Bittle giggles. “I’m usually starting my second or third pie right about now.”

“Of twelve,” Jack teases him, and earns a _hey!_ and an elbow to his arm in response. “I know you too, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose you do,” Bittle says more seriously. Then he hastens to add, his voice drawling as he goes, “After all, you’ve discovered my deepest, darkest secret — _I like to bake_.”

Jack nudges him back for that. “In the middle of the night,” he points out.

“Pie tastes better at midnight, Mr. Zimmermann, and that’s a fact,” Bittle retorts. “Not that you would ever know.”

“Your sample size is one, Bittle. That’s not a valid survey.”

“Oh yeah?” Bittle says, rolling again, towards Jack this time. He pokes Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll bake you a pie right now and see what you think.”

Jack flips so he’s facing Bittle. There’s still not much of him to see in the dark, and he’s hugging his pillow in between them like he had the first night. “If you wake everyone up, I’m not sure they’ll forgive you as easily as they did the raccoon.”

“I’m not so sure that everyone is sleeping right now,” Bittle points out.

“Well, they’re not going to like getting interrupted during _that_ either.”

“I’m sure the pie would help smooth things over.” Bittle pauses thoughtfully, then adds, “You know, I’ll probably have to invest in some noise-canceling headphones for nighttime baking at home from now on.”

It’s a lighthearted comment, but Jack finds himself considering it more seriously. “Is it going to be weird for you? Living with Shitty and Lardo while this all… happens?”

“I don’t know,” Bittle replies. “Maybe? At the very least, I think they’ll be open to talking about it if things _do_ get weird. I mean, my bed is in Shitty’s room, so that’ll have to change. Maybe that’s what I should focus on. Best case scenario: they move in together and I get a whole room all to myself.”

“That would be good,” Jack agrees.

“It really would.” Bittle sighs. “I’m happy for them — I really am — but it’s a complicated situation.”

Jack stares hard at the dim, pale lines of Bittle’s arms around his pillow. “Things like this usually are,” he says carefully. “When friends — have feelings for each other.”

“Yeah.”

“It can be worth it, though,” Jack continues, his pulse throbbing suddenly through his veins. “To take that chance. If you do.”

Bittle is quiet for a few endless seconds. Then his voice carries quietly through the darkness, “Jack?”

Jack lets his hand breach the scant inches separating them, his knuckles brushing light as air over the soft skin of Bittle’s forearm. “I think it can be worth it. To try.”

There’s a gentle _whoosh_ as Bittle lets out a gusty breath that carries Jack’s name again, and Jack inches closer on the mattress. He leans in, finding and holding the side of Bittle’s face for guidance, and Bittle angles his head away from the pillow as Jack fumbles their lips together in the dark. It’s a brief, barely-there kiss that breaks with a soft noise, but Jack does it again. And again. And Bittle meets him again. And again.

He lets out a soft whine too, when Jack presses in harder, and Jack’s heart ricochets off his ribs. Their position iss awkward, but then Bittle wrestles the pillow out of the way and they come together, knees colliding and hands fumbling for places to touch and hold while the bedsheets tangle. Bittle’s fingers thread into Jack’s hair as he works Jack’s mouth open, everything getting deep and hot and good.

Jack still has one arm awkwardly twisted beneath him, and Bittle keeps tugging at his t-shirt and squirming closer, so Jack gives in and pushes himself up, allowing Bittle to scoot his sweet, slim hips over until he’s right underneath Jack’s body. Jack tries to keep his weight up, but Bittle encourages with his hands and his legs and Jack can’t hold out forever. He lowers himself down, feels himself against Bittle and Bittle against him, and he pulls back, panting. “Bittle,” he gasps. “Should we — should we _talk_ about this —?”

Bittle lets his head fall back against the pillows with a groan, and for a moment Jack is afraid that he’s annoyed, but they’re close enough that when Bittle opens his eyes, Jack can see that they’re giddy in the dark, and that he’s smiling. “Of course, sweetheart,” he says, sounding ragged. Jack’s heart manages to jump even higher at the endearment.

“I just want you to know that — this isn’t…” Jack starts, grasping for words. He’s no poet on a good day, and his brain is effectively scrambled by everything that’s happening. “Wait, let me start over. It _is_ because I really like you. And I should have told you that — before. Well, any of this.”

“Oh, honey,” Bittle whispers back with a breathy laugh. “I have had a crush on you for _years_.”

That brings Jack up short. “Years?”

“Why do you think I hung around so often?” Bittle asks. He’s gently petting over Jack’s back and his hair as he speaks. “I was a busy college student, Mr. Zimmermann. I should _not_ have been gallivanting off to Shitty’s apartment so often.”

“But I wasn’t nice to you when we first met,” Jack blurts out.

“No,” Bittle agrees, holding Jack’s gaze, steady and fond. “But then you were, and you more than made up for it. And you’re being awful nice to me tonight.” He lifts his hips against Jack’s body. A groan rumbles its way out of Jack’s throat, and Bittle works his fingers under the collar of Jack’s t-shirt, pressing them into the skin of his upper back. “Is that enough talking for now?” he murmurs.

“For now,” Jack says, because he’s still a little shocked at Bittle’s revelation and he might be returning to that later, but he’s happy enough to sink back down, into Bittle’s body and against his lips. He obliges as Bittle shifts around to get his legs outside of Jack’s, and then they’re intimately twined together, still clothed and hidden under a twisted pile of blankets. It’s all sensuous: the luxurious press of their mouths, the way Bittle is touching him, and — when it begins — the rocking of their hips.

Maybe they shouldn’t go this far this fast, Jack thinks fleetingly, but he doesn’t put a stop to it. He lets it escalate — no, that’s not right. They both let it escalate. They both _make_ it escalate, until they’re both panting and shushing each other and giggling about trying to find enough friction to get off without making the bed squeak or giving voice to their bitten-off moans.

Jack shakes apart first, tucking his face against the side of Bittle’s neck to muffle the noises he makes with Bittle’s skin and the pillows beneath him. The orgasm washes over him, more powerfully than Jack might have expected based on the fact that they’re frotting through their pajamas. He clamps one hand over the side of Bittle’s ass, holding Bittle’s body _just so_ while he ruts to completion, whining into Bittle’s hair. Bittle presses distracted, off-center kisses to his temple. “Bittle,” Jack rasps, and in his daze he wonders if it’s ridiculous to call the guy he just came against by his last name. “Bitty.”

“ _Honey_ ,” Bittle breathes into his ear. He scratches a hand over Jack’s scalp, sending tingles down his spine. The fine tremors in his limbs and the twitching of his hips betray his languidness.

“Now you?”

“Well,” Bittle replies, dipping his voice low, “If you insist.”

He rearranges himself slightly, so he’s rolling himself up against Jack’s hipbone instead of his spent cock, and it doesn’t take long until Bittle is coming with his teeth set into his lip and his hands tight on Jack’s back. As the tension leaves his body, Jack thumbs his mouth free and kisses it. Bittle makes a throaty noise and responds, but he’s loose and lazy against the mattress.

“Jack,” Bittle murmurs against his lips, a few minutes or hours later.

“Yeah?”

“I’m all sticky.”

Jack pulls back from Bittle’s mouth and presses his smile to Bittle’s throat, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to laugh giddily about that and everything. Bittle starts giggling too, and Jack shifts off him but doesn’t go far. “I think there’s a box of tissues on the dresser.”

“Oh gosh, all the way over there?”

“Well, I didn’t realize I’d be needing them here by the bed,” Jack protests. He leans over to nuzzle along Bittle’s jaw and plant a kiss under his ear before whispering, “I’m glad I do though.”

He can just make out Bittle’s face shining at him in the dark. “Oh Jack, me too.”

  


**SUNDAY**

When Jack blinks his eyes open the next morning and checks his fitness tracker, he’s surprised to see the late hour. Relatively, he thinks ruefully, because he doubts that anyone else would consider seven-thirty in the morning _late_ , especially on vacation. For Jack, though, it’s sleeping in.

He’d been up for a good chunk of time during the night, after all. Making out with Bittle. Getting off with Bittle. Jack smiles.

But when he rolls over, hoping to spoon up behind Bittle, he finds only empty real estate between himself and the edge of the bed.

He probably should have realized that he was alone, because there were no freezing feet pressed against his calves when he woke up. He can hardly blame himself for that; he’s not familiar enough with waking up next to Bittle yet to notice that they weren’t there.

Great, he’s thinking _yet_ when he’d woken up to an empty bed.

There’s a seed of worry trying to take root in Jack’s chest, but after everything that had been said and done in the night, it can’t be the worst possible scenario, can it? Jack supposes there’s only one way to find out. He climbs out of bed and creeps from the room.

Dex and Nursey are sprawled all over the two couches in the living room in ways that can’t possibly be comfortable. The door to Shitty and Lardo’s room is resolutely shut, and Bittle is nowhere in sight, which really only leaves one option — unless Bittle has literally run for the hills. Jack moves as quietly as he can to the cabin door and slips out.

It’s a different sort of morning, gray and damp, and the boards of the porch feel cold under Jack’s bare feet. Bittle is there, cuddled up on one of the Adirondack chairs and wrapped in a quilted blanket that Jack last remembers seeing draped over one of the chairs in the main room. He turns as Jack steps out, and when their eyes meet, his face pinks adorably and a soft smile stretches his mouth. “Jack.”

“Hey,” Jack says. He eases he door shut and shuffles forward half a step, then abruptly stops. What he wants to do is tuck himself between Bittle and the chair, let Bittle lean back against his chest, spread the blanket over them both. But he’s not sure he can, not when he and Bittle aren’t anything certain ( _yet_ , his mind supplies tortuously) and anyone might walk outside and stumble upon them.

Neither one of them has said anything else, and they’re just kind of gazing at each other, so Jack clears his throat and adds, “You were gone when I woke up.”

Bittle glances down, sheepish, and then back up. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake you up with all my tossing and turning.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” Jack asks. He finally crosses the porch, choosing to sit in the second Adirondack chair, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.

“I’m too happy,” Bittle admits shyly, and Jack heart soars. “And nervous. But mostly happy.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if you woke me up to tell me that.”

“No? I kept you up awful late.”

Jack smirks. “I didn’t mind that either.”

“Can I take that as advance permission for a repeat performance?” Bittle asks, accompanying the question with a flirtatious look up through his eyelashes.

It’s enough to make Jack flutter and flush, all at once. “Well, maybe.”

Bittle’s jaw drops. “ _Maybe_?”

Jack shrugs. “Maybe we’ll repeat it, or maybe we’ll think of something else to do.”

“This boy,” Bittle mutters, but Jack can tell that he’s biting back a smile.

“I meant like a Boggle tournament,” Jack adds, and Bittle just shakes his head. They lapse into a comfortable silence, looking out at the sky hanging over the river like a steel blanket. “Hey, Bittle?” Jack says after a moment or two of quiet.

“Yeah?”

“I’m happy too. Really happy.”

Their eyes meet and hold. Bittle’s are bright, and Jack can’t feel the chill in the air anymore. “Good,” he says.

*

They have a lot of plans for the day that don’t pan out when the fog rolls in.

It’s not an unusual phenomenon, according to Dex, especially not so close to the ocean. While it might not be unusual, it certainly is dismal: cold and damp and so thick that Jack can’t even see the trees at the edge of the yard. It also puts an immediate damper on kayaking or hiking or even going back to the beach. Instead, they raid the collection of strange vintage board games in the closet beside the television and start a marathon that jumps from Waterworks (Nursey wins, which pisses off Dex, who storms out to start working on the shed despite the weather) to Payday (which has no logical end, but Jack is ahead when Bittle quits out of boredom and starts to make lunch) to Bonkers (they play several rounds, and Shitty loses every time, which leads to him muttering _fucking Bonkers_ at odd moments for the rest of the day).

Nobody seems too inclined to start a game of Monopoly, no matter how much time it might kill, so they take a break in the late afternoon by unspoken agreement. Shitty, Lardo, and Nursey retreat to the porch to split a joint, and Jack joins Bittle to start making pizzas for dinner. To his surprise, Dex — who had reappeared about half an hour earlier — joins them, and Bittle puts him right to work. He’s a surprisingly good hand in the kitchen, but Jack can’t help the disappointment he feels at Dex’s presence, because it means that he can’t flirt with Bittle as much as he wants to.

After they eat, Shitty returns to the game closet, and turns back around with a wicked glint in his eye, brandishing a box almost menacingly. “Pictionary,” he announces.

So they play Pictionary. There’s even a child’s art set with an easel that they prop up on the coffee table. Lardo’s great at it, of course. Everyone else sucks to varying degrees.

Pictionary progresses into dirty Pictionary, which Jack eventually quits out of shame when he doesn’t know what _spit roasting_ is.

“ _Jaaaack_ ,” Shitty whines at him, “you can’t quit now, we’ll have uneven teams.”

“You might only have two people, but one of them is _Lardo_ ,” Jack points out. “You’ll be fine.”

Shitty nods at him thoughtfully, then brightens. “You’re fucking right, my friend. Now go to bed, you big beautiful bore,” he says, saluting Jack with his beer.

Everyone else is half in the bag already, if not more — except Bittle. Jack’s pretty sure that he even inconspicuously switched to water, and Jack hopes that means exactly what he thinks it means.

So hopefully it’s only a matter of time.

Jack retreats to their shared bedroom, and he spends some time looking at sports headlines on his phone before deciding to change into a t-shirt and a soft pair of shorts. No matter what he’s hoping for and no matter what they’d hinted at that morning, he doesn’t want to be presumptuous. When he crouches down to tuck his clothes into his duffel bag, he happens to glance over at Bittle’s, which — unlike every other time he’s seen it this weekend — is unzipped and hanging open. Jack doesn’t want to snoop, so he looks away immediately — but then he blinks and his gaze is drawn back, just to verify what he’s seeing, if nothing else.

There’s a rabbit in Bittle’s bag.

Not a real one, of course. It’s a stuffed animal, soft-looking and obviously well-loved, nestled in between some balled-up t-shirts and a pair of tennis shoes. Jack feels like the little toy is watching him imploringly, hoping to be freed from where it’s half-buried under the hoodie that Bittle had been wearing the night before.

Then the door opens, and Jack snaps his eyes up guiltily to see Bittle stepping in. “Hey,” he says, voice soft and warm — until he notices his duffel bag, open on the floor between them. His face suffuses with color, and he leans against the door, closing it with a _click_ as he groans.

“I’m sorry,” Jack stammers out. He’s obviously crouched in front of his own bag, but he hurries on: “I didn’t mean to be looking at your things. It was open and I just —”

“Oh, honey, I know,” Bittle interrupts. He smiles weakly. “And I see you’ve met Senor Bun.”

Jack bites back a grin. “Senor… Bun?”

Bittle gives a rueful sigh and crosses the room to sit on the floor beside Jack. He pulls the rabbit out of his bag, cradling it gently. “This is Senor Bunny. Coach got him for me the day I was born. Right there in the hospital.”

And Jack — feels like his heart is expanding so much it could pop against the inside of his ribcage. Here’s Bittle, sitting on the floor wearing a t-shirt that says _No Whisk No Reward_ , softly lit by the lamp beside the bed, cuddling a tattered stuffed rabbit, and Jack can’t believe he didn’t realize how he was feeling sooner. Or maybe he can.

Jack extends a hand and lightly squeezes one of the rabbit’s front paws. “Nice to meet you, Senor Bunny,” he says, voice serious. “I’m Jack.”

Bittle ducks his head. He’s quiet for a moment, and Jack watches the top of his head, puzzled, until he starts talking again, his voice low. “Bun, this is Jack. I think you’ll be seeing a lot more of him. I hope so, anyway.”

“You will,” Jack adds. Bittle looks up at him, and they smile at each other for a moment. “Do you, uh — do you want to bring him up into bed?”

“No,” Bittle says.

“No? He’d be more comfortable there.”

“No,” Bittle repeats. His grin tilts a little. “I don’t want him witnessing — anything that might happen.”

That’s all it takes for the heat flooding Jack’s chest to start pooling in his belly as well. “Oh?” he asks. “You think something’s gonna happen?”

“Yes,” Bittle replies decisively. He gives Senor Bunny one last cuddle, tucks him back into the duffel bag, and zips the top shut.

Then he looks across at Jack, and Jack looks back at him. And even though Jack wants nothing more than to bridge the gap between sitting on the floor with Bittle and getting him into bed, he’s not sure how to make the transition. It’s Bittle who finally laughs and stands, offering his hands to Jack. “Oh, come here, you.”

He pulls Jack to his feet with surprising strength, and it brings them face to face. Or, more accurately, it brings them close, with Bittle’s face beaming up into Jack’s — he’s sure, he can feel it — adoring one. Bittle reaches, boosts himself onto his toes, and brings Jack down into a kiss. It’s sweet and hungry and everything Jack’s been aching for all day, through every private glance and secret smile they’d managed to share.

It doesn’t take them long to find the mattress, especially not when it’s that much more comfortable when neither of them have to strain to compensate for their height difference. Jack tries to strike a balance between taking his time and rushing ahead, but it’s hard when Bittle feels so good under his hands and his lips. He divests Bittle of his ridiculous, endearing t-shirt and his shorts, lets Bittle do the same to him. It leaves them naked and pressed together, Bittle’s erection rubbing wetly against Jack’s abdomen — and yeah, Senor Bun should _not_ be seeing any of this.

Bittle grinds down against Jack’s body, dragging a groan from his throat. “Jack,” he gasps, hushed, because they’re trying to be quiet. “Jack, I —”

“What do you want?” Jack whispers back. God, there’s so much _he_ wants to do, but he’s not sure if — if —

“Oh, lord,” Bittle moans, his mouth moving against the skin of Jack’s throat. “Everything.”

Jack’s hips jerk, a near-involuntary response to the words. “Can I — can I blow you?” he asks. “I don’t know if…”

Bittle makes a frustrated noise. “We, uh. Probably shouldn’t do that. I’ve been safe, before. But I haven’t been, y’know. Tested. Since. Unless you have a condom?” His voice takes on a hopeful lilt.

“No,” Jack grumbles. It’s been a while since he even had to think about whether he’d need condoms. “Do you?”

“No,” Bittle says, and giggles a little against Jack’s shoulder. “That’s the last thing I thought I’d need this weekend.”

Jack smiles into Bittle’s hair and relaxes his grip like he’s going to let Bittle go. “I can go ask Lardo and Shitty if we can use one of theirs. I’m sure they brought some.”

Bittle shakes harder and he flattens himself against Jack’s chest. “Don’t you _dare_.” He lifts his head and kisses Jack soundly, once, twice. “But maybe…”

Instead of continuing, he sinks back down against Jack’s lips. “Maybe?” Jack prompts, when they break apart again.

“Maybe _I_ could blow _you_?” Bittle asks sweetly.

“That,” Jack says, strained, “that would work. I — I’m good.”

“Good,” Bittle echoes.

He sits up and starts to scoot back, but Jack takes a firm grip on his hips, keeping him in place. “And what about you?”

BIttle winks. “I’m sure we can come up with something for me.”

He works his way down Jack’s body eagerly, petting, licking, sucking, stroking. It’s overwhelming, and Jack’s hands twist against the sheets, because he feels like he should be _doing_ something. Bittle shushes him and urges him to relax, but then Bittle is nuzzling gently up the length of his cock, and relaxation is the last thing happening.

Bittle’s mouth is clever and enthusiastic, and it leaves Jack with his head tossed back against the pillows while he writhes his hips against the mattress, trying not to thrust up with too much force. He knows that it’s going to be over faster than he’d like, because it’s been long enough that he’d actually forgotten how _good_ this feels, and because Bittle is working him determinedly towards orgasm. One that, even though Jack knows it’s coming, slams into him sideways. He bites off a louder exclamation with a grunt, and then he throws one arm over his mouth to muffle whatever noises he might not be able to contain, his hips stuttering. Bittle stays with him through it all, only sliding off and away when Jack slumps back, pressing one last kiss to the point of his hipbone.

When Jack uncovers his face, Bittle is propped up on one elbow, flushed and smiling at him. Jack reaches up, feeling loose and uncoordinated, and hooks one hand behind Bittle’s neck to drag him down. Bittle giggles against Jack’s lips, and Jack tastes himself when he licks up into Bittle’s mouth. “Bits,” Jack murmurs, and the only thing he can think to say is the only thing buzzing through his short-circuiting brain: “That felt so good.”

“I’m glad,” Bittle replies, sounding amused.

Jack tugs him closer, and Bittle’s still-very-present erection ends up pressed into Jack’s stomach. “Oh,” Jack says.

Bittle shudders and lets out a tiny moan. “Oh, hon, don’t worry about —”

But Jack just clamps his hands over Bittle’s ass so that he’s impelled to grind down. “I’m not worried,” he murmurs into Bittle’s ear. “I just wish I could return the favor.”

Bittle makes a _noise_ at that, and then says, “You are definitely welcome to when we get home.”

“I will,” Jack agrees, “but for now, this will have to do.” He tents his knees and jostles Bittle into a sitting position, so that he’s straddling Jack’s torso and can lean back on his legs. Then, he takes Bittle’s dick in hand. Jack really does wish that he could blow Bittle instead — he’s better with his mouth than he is at this — but he’s determined to make this good, so he gives it everything he’s got, stroking with his fingers, twisting his wrist, trying to change up his grip and his speed to figure out what Bittle likes best.

He must be doing something right, because Bittle is appreciative and eager, even as he tries to stay quiet, squirming against Jack’s body and watching him with hazy, lidded eyes. He wraps a hand around the one Jack is using on his cock when he gets close, and he comes with a sharp breath and a shuddering sigh, making a mess of Jack’s chest.

“Well,” Bittle says when his eyes flutter open. “I am definitely glad that Senor Bun didn’t see any of _that_.”

Jack snorts out a laugh — but after they do a cursory cleanup, Bittle shyly retrieves the rabbit from his bag. Instead of holding it, he tucks Senor Bun under his pillow, and Jack can practically feel him smile when they’re tucked up together and Jack whispers, “Night, Bits. Night, Bun.”

  


**MONDAY**

The next morning, Jack wakes up in bed with Bittle,and this time he gets his wish: Bittle is curled up right next to him, with his face smashed into Jack’s arm — and his cold feet on Jack’s calves. It’s endearing, not to mention perplexing; Jack still doesn’t understand how Bittle’s able to breathe with his whole head under the covers. Instead of worrying about it, he closes his eyes and drifts in and out of sleep until he hears someone stirring in the main room.

As much as he tries to extricate himself without disturbing Bittle, Jack does wake him up, a fact made obvious by the put-upon groan that issues forth from under the bedclothes. Jack winces and leans over to kiss the top of Bittle’s head — the only part of him that’s actually exposed to open air. “Sorry, bud,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

An annoyed grunt is his only response. Jack chuckles and tiptoes out.

In the main room, he finds that both Nursey and Dex are awake, each sitting on one of the couches in a pile of blankets and looking — significantly worse for wear. Lardo’s in the kitchen uncapping a sports drink, and she gives Jack a half-hearted wave.

“Morning,” Jack greets her. “How are you feeling?”

“Worse than you,” she says glibly, “but not as bad as the wonder twins.”

That’s directed at Dex and Nursey. Dex glowers at her, but Nursey just shrugs. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Lardo takes a swig of her drink. “Should have taken it a little easier last night. You’re going to have a miserable drive back,” she comments, without much sympathy.

“So will you,” Dex grumbles.

“Nah. Jack’s taking first shift, and maybe we can talk Bits into taking the second one. He went to bed pretty early. Where is Bits, anyway?”

“He was still sleeping when I got up,” Jack says, which is mostly true. Either way, Bittle’s almost certainly sleeping again by now.

Lardo drops into one of the kitchen chairs. “Fuck, I could really go for some eggs right now.”

Jack side-eyes her. “You could make some.”

She flips him off without hesitation or much malice. “His are way fucking better,” she grumbles. “Bits makes the _best_ hangover eggs.”

“He makes the best everything,” Nursey points out.

“True,” she says, raising her sports drink bottle in his direction like she’s making a toast. “Why is he sleeping so late, anyway? He went to bed right after you, Jack.”

She looks right at him, and Jack jumps into action, feeling a sudden and intense need for a protein shake, which means he can stick his head in the refrigerator instead of meeting her gaze. “I don’t know,” he replies as he pulls open the door and starts digging around inside. “All I know is that he was still asleep when I got up.”

“It’s _Bitty_ ,” Dex chimes in. “Is anyone surprised by this?”

“I suppose not.” Lardo glances over at Jack as he emerges with his shake. “Hey, Jack, when I’m feeling a little more human, do you mind if I borrow your truck to go into town? I want to hit up one or two of those little gift shops before we leave. I need a souvenir.”

Jack’s not sure what she’s calling the small mountain of sea glass and rocks that she’s planning to tote back to Boston, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he says, “No.”

“ _No_?”

“No,” he repeats, then he winks at her. “I’ll take you. I think maybe I could use a souvenir myself.”

*

So after Bittle makes eggs for everyone, and after they say their good-byes to Dex and Nursey, and after they help pack and clean up the kitchen, Jack and Lardo pile into the truck to make the ten-minute drive into a tiny neighboring city. Shitty declines to join them in favor of sleeping an hour more, and Bittle cheerfully tells them that if he goes, he’ll only be tempted to spend money he doesn’t have, and he sends them on their way.

There are a handful of shops clustered at the end of what appears to be the only real street in town, and they first one they try sells a baffling combination of handmade candy, silver jewelry, and knitwear. The sweets naturally make Jack think of Bittle, and the caps and scarves and mittens remind him of how ridiculously Bittle bundles up during the winter. The jewelry doesn’t hold any particular association, so Jack just hovers behind Lardo while she looks it over and thinks about Bittle because he wants to.

He’s surprised when she doesn’t buy anything, but instead hustles him into the another store that sells mostly carved wooden whales and photographs of the coast. Jack is intrigued by the pictures, but they quickly learn that everything is out of their price range and move on.

The next shop they try is a pottery studio, and Lardo is instantly enraptured by everything: she moves slowly around the room, admiring vases and bowls and mugs. Jack makes appreciative noises, but he can’t quite match her level of enthusiasm. It’s all pretty stuff, but he doesn’t know one kind of glaze from another. It’s a relief when the proprietor comes over to greet them and she and Lardo fall into a conversation about firing techniques. Jack politely detaches himself and keeps looking around the store.

He wants something to remind him of this trip, of everything that had happened over these momentous few days, even if it doesn’t feel like anything he’ll want to forget any time soon. It’s proving easier said than done; they’ve almost exhausted all the stores in town, and Jack wants something more permanent than chocolate, he doesn’t wear jewelry, and trinkets like refrigerator magnets feel inadequate. This place feels like a bust too — there are a lot of vases, and Jack doesn’t have the need for one.

Then he pauses in front of a shelf of coffee mugs. He picks one up thoughtfully. It’s glazed in rich, mottled shades of blue, and it makes him think of blueberries, of the ocean, of the sky at dusk. Bittle likes coffee, he thinks. Maybe they should have a pair of mugs from Maine at Jack’s apartment, that they can drink coffee out of in the mornings when he stays over. And maybe that’s presumptuous, but well — Jack’s pretty sure that Bittle will be staying over sometime. He hopes so anyway.

Lardo sidles up next to him, vase in hand. “Gonna buy one? It’s pretty.”

“Yeah,” Jack replies. He turns the mug over, tracing his fingers along the rim. “I think so. Maybe two.”

“Two?” Lardo asks, arching an eyebrow.

Jack feels seen, but he tries to shrug it off. “Might as well have a matching set. For when people come to visit,” he adds lamely.

It’s an error, and Lardo picks up on it right away. “People? Like who?” There’s a glint in her eye that he doesn’t like.

“Um… my parents?”

Lardo smiles wickedly at him. “So they can have coffee in these while you use something else?”

Jack sighs. He knows when he’s been caught. “Shit. I should have said I was going to buy them _for_ my parents.”

“Nah,” Lardo says, “I would have seen right through that too. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes and no,” Jack replies, because it’s the truth.

Lardo laughs. “Well, let’s check out while you decide.”

They make their purchases, and it takes another few minutes to leave the store because Lardo ends up talking more with the shop owner — she leaves with the woman’s business card and writes down her Instagram handle in return. Then they meander to the end of the street, which opens into a parking lot alongside a tiny marina. The tide is out, exposing the pilings on the docks that extend into the water, and the fog, even though it’s thinning, still obscures the view of anything farther than a few meters from shore. Lardo sits on a bench at the edge of the pavement, drawing her feet up onto the bench and tucking her knees inside the oversized sweatshirt that she’s wearing — obviously Shitty’s. Jack takes a seat beside her.

For a few moments, they’re quiet. Despite the chill in the air, Jack feels a sense of comfort and peace settling over him — the same one he’d felt standing in the river the day they arrived, taking his morning run through the Maine woods, or waking up curled around Bittle. It’s such a deep calm that it doesn’t even dissipate when Lardo asks, “So, what’s up, bro? Any particular reason why you want to remember this trip? Which involves buying his-and-his coffee mugs?”

Jack ducks his head, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “It sounds like you already know.”

“Well, I don’t _know_ ,” she admits, “but I _suspect_ it has something to do with Bitty, and how much time you two have had to… get to know each other.”

“God,” Jack says. He rubs his hands over his face and leans forward onto his elbows. “Yeah, okay, maybe.”

When he looks back over at Lardo, she’s grinning at him. “I think that’s really awesome, Jack. I love you, and I love Bitty, and this could be something fucking great for both of you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jack admits, and Lardo reaches over to cuff him affectionately on the shoulder. Jack drops his gaze again, sure that he’s blushing, then looks up to stare out into the flat, gray fog. “You’re in the same boat, kind of. Do you ever worry about…”

He doesn’t continue right away, and in fact stays quiet for so long that Lardo prompts him, gently, “Worry about what?”

“What happens if it doesn’t work out?” Jack says. “You’re all my closest friends in the world. What happens if we all break up?”

“You’ll still have me,” she replies simply.

Jack can’t help but smile a little at that. “But we only know each other because of Shitty.”

Lardo scoffs. “Whatever, Jack. We’re bros for life, like it or not. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Dammit, I really thought that would work,” Jack quips.

It earns him an eye roll from Lardo. “You’d still have Shits too, you know. We’d share custody of you. And as for Bits? That would depend on how bad your breakup was. He wouldn’t just leave you out in the cold, unless you insulted one of his pies or something.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. It’s not even something he wants to joke about, not when the whole situation is so new and uncertain.

Lardo sobers. She curls her arms around her bent knees and props her chin on them, watching him as she speaks. “I know it’s a scary time. You think I’m not shit scared sometimes? Shitty and I have been dancing around this thing for years. We’ve known each other a lot longer than you and Bits.”

“So what you’re saying is Bittle really _could_ leave me out in the cold because there’s not as much at stake.”

“ _Jack_ ,” Lardo groans. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. And hey, look at it this way: you and Bitty figured your shit out way faster than we did. Maybe you were never meant to be just friends.”

It’s Jack’s turn to roll his eyes. “You don’t believe in things like _meant to be_.”

Lardo leans over so that she can nudge him with her elbow. “I’m trying to help here. Okay, so maybe it means that you and Bits have got your shit _way_ more together than Shitty and I do.”

Jack chuckles. “I don’t have my shit together.”

“There you go; neither does Bitty. You’re a perfect match.”

Even though Jack knows she doesn’t mean any harm by it, the comment rankles a bit. He squints at her. “Hey now, that’s not very nice.”

“Fuck, look at you, all protective already,” she says, and Jack feels his face warm back up. “Jack, come on! We’re in our twenties. None of us should be expected to have our shit together. We’re supposed to be figuring ourselves out and doing dumb shit like falling in love with our best friends.”

His eyebrows quirk up. “Are you falling in love?”

Lardo averts her eyes and shuffles around in a way that lets him know she’s embarrassed. “I don’t know; are you?” she shoots back.

“It’s been two days,” Jack retorts. He’s probably not, not really. He’s infatuated, but it is too soon for real love. The path to it, though, is wide open and waiting.

“Well, it hasn’t been that much longer over here,” Lardo says, looking back out to the ocean, or what they can see of it. They both watch a gull swoop overhead, and then she asks, “Are you happy, Jack?”

“Right now?” he asks, being deliberately obtuse.

She rolls her eyes. “About what’s happening with you and Bits.” She turns back to him, more earnest now, searching. “It’s making you happy?”

Jack looks down at his hands in his lap. He smiles. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Lardo says. “I’m happy for you, Jack. I’m happy for both of you.”

“Good,” he echoes, then abruptly stands, having reached his limit on bearing his soul for the day. “We should get back. We have to be out of there by three.”

“I’m going to hate to leave,” Lardo comments as they walk back toward the truck.

“Me too,” Jack says. “But we’re bringing the important stuff back with us, eh?”

*

The fog retreats while they’re packing, and by the time they’re done, the sun is actually filtering weakly through the clouds. Jack’s glad they won’t be leaving Maine under a cloud of gloom. When they settle into the truck, Jack’s behind the wheel and Bittle is riding shotgun. They don’t even need to scheme to make it happen: Lardo and Shitty immediately get in back, and she curls up against the door one her side, pressing her bare feet into Shitty’s thigh. Bitty settles himself in the front seat, shooting Jack a private smile from behind his sunglasses as he adjusts them. Jack winks. “Everyone ready to go?”

There are noises of agreement. Jack isn’t so sure that _he’s_ ready to leave, but he can’t stay. And after all, whatever’s happening with Bittle — well, that’s coming back to Boston.

“You’ve got everything you brought with you?”

The answers are all affirmative.

“You double checked?” Jack asks, biting back a smile.

The chorus of yeses grows even less enthusiastic.

“Everyone used the bathroom?”

“Yes, _dad_ ,” Shitty says pointedly. “But I’m gonna have to go again if you want to play Twenty Questions for much longer.”

“All right, all right,” Jack relents. When he glances over, Bittle looks affectionately annoyed. Jack grins at him and starts maneuvering the vehicle out of the driveway. He doesn’t turn on any music right away — and surprisingly, neither does Bittle — so they leave the cabin in silence.

They make it about half a mile down the road before Shitty lets out a gusty sigh. “Kind of fucking sucks to be leaving, though. This was a fun weekend.”

“It was,” Jack agrees. In the corner of his vision, he sees Bittle smirk.

“I’m sorry we made you into third wheels though, brahs. That wasn’t the intention. The timing was just weird.”

“There are four of us,” Jack says mildly. “So there aren’t any third wheels.”

In the rearview mirror, Shitty rolls his eyes. “You fucking know what I mean.”

Jack makes a right turn onto a more central road. “I do, but you don’t have to apologize. Bittle and I got along all right, eh, Bittle?”

“We got along just fine,” Bittle concurs.

“Good,” Shitty says.

They lapse into silence again. Jack casually rests his arm on the center console.

For a while, they just drive. No one says anything, and no one suggests putting on music, so they each watch in silence as the trees slip by outside.

Bittle puts his arm on the console too, just like Jack had hoped he might.

Jack nudges Bittle’s hand with his. Bittle twists his wrist and unfurls his fingers, and Jack covers them with his own.

Then he waits.

It doesn’t take long.

“Are you motherfuckers _holding hands_?”

Jack makes an exaggerated show of looking down. “Oh yeah, I guess we are.” He sneaks a quick peek at Bittle to see him turning pink and biting back a smile.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shitty exclaims, with feeling, before leaning forward to punch Jack in the shoulder. “It’s about fucking time.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Bittle fires back pertly.

Shitty clutches his chest and falls back against his seat. “You wound me, Bits. Go easy; you owe me big time.”

“How’s that?” Jack asks, squinting at him in the rearview mirror.

“Without me, you wouldn’t have ended up sharing that room and you’d still be a couple of sad sacks who hadn’t realized yet that they’re fucking made for each other.”

“Hey!” Lardo exclaims. “That happened because of _us_.”

“Nah,” Jack says easily. “It would have happened anyway.” He’s going to be seeing a lot of Bittle now that he’s living at Shitty’s, and Jack knows now that there’s no way he could spend any significant amount of time with Bittle without ending up crazy about him. He’ll tell Bittle as much later, but for the moment, he gives Bittle’s hand a squeeze.

Bittle squeezes back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥ Link to tumblr post [here](https://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/184784706587/the-maine-thing-zimbits-fic) and dreamwidth post [here](https://luckiedee.dreamwidth.org/2254.html).


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